


Eine Kleine

by pseudocitrus



Series: Backburner [3]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: Angst, Blindfolds, F/M, Fluff, Smut, Touken, Touken Smut Week, Touken Week, Tousaki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 13:16:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3328055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is so relieved to see her, even though the skin beneath her eyes is dark, probably as dark as his own. Sasaki adjusts his glasses, which he is wearing only in the hopes that they’ll cover up the fact he’s barely slept since hearing that Rabbit was attacked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eine Kleine

**Author's Note:**

> this fic contains material for three prompts:  
> \+ an anon on tumblr, who asked for “a continuation of [part] 9. from Backburner for First Time prompt?”  
> \+ the “Blindfold” prompt on Touken Smut Week  
> \+ and homebound: “Complete trash here: Touka blindfolds Sasaki and goes down on him”
> 
> it continues on from part 9 of [Backburner](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2564357/chapters/5727959) & [Backburner:re](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2564357/chapters/5925875), but some details have been shamelessly altered to suit prompts and newly released canon… -cough-
> 
> it’s also named for the cover of Eine Kleine by Aozora, which is what i listened to on repeat while writing this whole thing :)

He is so relieved to see her, even though the skin beneath her eyes is dark, probably as dark as his own. Sasaki adjusts his glasses, which he is wearing only in the hopes that they’ll cover up the fact he’s barely slept since hearing that Rabbit was attacked.

“Had some trouble yesterday,” he admits with a humorless chuckle.

“That makes two of us,” Kirishima mutters back.

He searches her for injuries, but sees nothing other than the tremble of her hand as she pours him a little cup of sake. They exchange glances and quiet cheers, then tip their cups back.

Seeing her breathing and drinking and warm and _alive_ does something to him. Sasaki breathes shallowly, as if inflating his lungs too much might shatter his heart. He came so close to believing that the next time he saw her she’d be reduced to a single wing in a suitcase, and his eyes sting, his throat tightens and trembles and he can’t bring himself to even play at being lighthearted for her.

Neither can she, apparently. They spend the next ten minutes choking out the requisite conversation, and then pay, and leave. He doesn’t protest when she follows him to his neighborhood. His home. His door. The door shuts, closing out the lights and clamor of the city, and in the dimness and quiet their breaths are suddenly, unavoidably loud.

Sasaki turns toward her and Kirishima regards him with eyes that are hooded and vaguely red. She smooths a hand over his wrinkled brow. Removes his glasses and folds them into his collar. Presses her mouth to his.

His stomach twists, exquisitely. He sighs against her, kisses her back, tasting gently, then hungrily. He raises his hands to her waist, and then beneath her blouse, fingers splayed to hold as much skin as possible.

_She’s so different,_ he thinks. And he isn’t in the mood to wonder how her body could ever feel different when now is the first time that his hands have ever touched the luscious softness of her flesh, the first time he’s felt her shiver and gasp against his mouth.

He could lose himself in her right now, right here, on the floor of his entryway. It takes an embarrassing amount of willpower for Sasaki to pull away from her, to grip her hand and guide her further inside. In the dark, he stumbles against his messily-folded futon and then kicks it apart, making no effort to hide his urgency.

As soon as it approximates a bed shape, he turns to Kirishima and she wraps her arms around him, and leans, and they collapse with a bounce on the pillows and blankets. Her weight pushes the air out of him, and he barely has time to reclaim it before it’s lost again — _she’s undressing him_. Her hands are yanking at the zipper of his jacket, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt — he sits up and does his best to help her, but after a tense minute Kirishima just yanks, and the buttons pop off and clatter across the floor.

Her clothing is next. He sits up, giving himself room to shrug off his jacket and shirt, and Kirishima sits up too, on her knees. He works at the belt on her waist, and then the button, and both rattle free. Her pants are loose enough now that Sasaki’s hand fits inside the hem easily, and as he grazes his fingers against her sex she sighs and wraps her arms tight around his neck.

He caresses her with the heel of his hand, dragging it on the skin above her clit, and then slips his thumb between her lips and circles around it, softly. She groans, and her wild exhales dishevel his hair, and soon she’s so wet that his whole palm is slick. He pushes a finger inside her, testing, and when her insides squeeze him his pulse rockets. With some horror he feels the veins in his left eye beginning to constrict. His ghoul’s eye is blackening — he’s _shaking_ — he’s losing control, in a way that he hasn’t since — since before he can remember.

He searches for any way to explain this to her, but before he can come up with anything, Kirishima places a hand over his face.

“Close your eyes,” she says.

He reply is a whisper. “Kirishima-san?”

In the interstices of her fingers his human eye sees her cheeks redden slightly.

“Close your eyes,” she repeats.

Is he just imagining things, or did her own eyes flicker black?

He does what she says. No argument, no puns. After a moment he hears and then feels the slither of satin against his skin — she’s retrieving his tie from the floor, she’s wrapping it over his eyes — and he almost, almost protests.

_I know already,_ he wants to say. _I’ve known. I’ve always known._

_Kirishima-san, I — have always —_

But he’s too breathless to explain anything, much less something he can barely understand.

Her fingers fumble at the zipper of his slacks, and he inhales sharply as her fingers curl loosely around him. He’s hard already, but somehow manages to get even harder when he feels her hot exhalation on the moisture beading at the top of his cock. He emits a helpless, breathless noise as her tongue flicks out across his slit, dabbing, bathing, making him even more wet before taking him into her mouth and massaging him with the broad and curl of her tongue.

He trembles, so hard that he feels like he’s going to fall apart, like his heart and all his bones are going to fly across the room in all different directions. Without seeing her, he can’t anticipate how she sucks and and purses her lips on the head of his cock — how she releases him from her mouth just to run her tongue up, and down, and in agonizing circles that linger and taste and make him feel like he’s being devoured, like soon he’ll be nothing but a puddle on the ground.

Pressure is building in him, molten, inexorable. He reaches out quickly and pats his hands down in front of him, on her shoulders, her back, her head, whatever he can reach. His fingers are stiff.

“S- _stop_ ,” he pants. He’s sure that his face is vividly red. “If you keep — I w-won’t be able to — s-so — stop.”

“Okay,” he hears. Relieved, he smooths his hands across her body, and feels — only because he’s expecting it — the near-imperceptible fog of warmth of there, brushing against the whorls of his fingers, like a flame of feather down. She shifts, stands; he hears the rustle and flap of fabric, and then feels the weight of her knees dip into the futon cushion on either side of him, feels the warmth of her bare thighs on his own. His nails dig into her waist and she aligns herself carefully and he feels her wet heat press against the tip of his cock, and then enfold it. She throbs around him. Even blindfolded, his vision flashes white.

“T-Touka,” he gasps, before he can stop himself, and he pulls her close, closer. Her hands rake his skull, his shoulders, everywhere he wants them to, and it’s like she knows him already, to the marrow.

“I feel,” he murmurs, “like I’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” and she kisses him, sucks the tip of his tongue, and each of his trembling, curling fingers.

She murmurs back. “Me too.”

Without seeing her, every touch and sound is unexpected, and magnified. Her hips buck gently against him and her softness and indulgent moan surround him, trap him. This is the first time in memory that he’s been wanted like this, wanted for _him_. Not as a first-class investigator or half-ghoul monster or teacher or mother or whatever other roles that people have for him. He nuzzles her hair and her mouth and her throat and his tongue laves every centimeter of skin he encounters, relishing, the way only a ghoul can, the sweetness of her beading sweat.

He finds the curve of her ear, and the way her body quakes around him when he whispers “ _Touka,_ ” makes him feel faint.

“Touka,” he sighs, again. “Could you...maybe...”

He trails off, pursing his lips.

“No,” he groans as she squeezes him. “I m-mean — I mean — _yes,_ but — but no, that’s not what I...that is, what I was hoping was...was, um…”

Her hand closes around his mouth to silence him.

“Just...say it,” she manages.

He swallows, and when her hand drops away, he obeys.

“Please...please say my name.”

Touka’s body stiffens. He rubs her waist, encouragingly, fumbles to find the gape of her mouth and then kisses it.

“Please,” he repeats, more sure. His lips brush her cheek, making their way to the curve of her ear. He kisses, nibbles the lobe. “Say it.”

She doesn’t say a word. He raises his hands to either side of her face, jerks his hips up a bit, earning a gasp.

“My name,” he says again, and her breath is ragged on his face when she mutters, “S-Sasaki-san.”

This won’t work. With some effort, he rolls around, flipping Touka onto her back beneath him. He kicks off his slacks and underwear entirely, runs a hand down her back and butt and thigh. He pushes himself out of her, and holds her away.

“Sasaki,” she whines, needy, and he shakes his head. Holds her down as she tries to raise her hips to him.

“Please...please say my name. My _other_ name. I…” Sasaki blushes. It’s embarrassing to admit this. “I…just want to hear you say it. Please. You...you remember it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she answers softly. “I remember.”

She sounds...sad? Startled, worried, he rests his hand lightly on her face, trying to interpret the creases of her brows and mouth. His investigations stop when she holds his palm against her cheek. He feels her exhale. Inhale.

“Hai...se,” she says, finally, and the simple syllables make him sigh with pleasure.

“Haise,” she says, again, more firmly, and his hands tangle in her hair, in the blankets, as he re-enters her.

“ _Haise,_ ” she gasps, and his fingers intertwine with hers as he plunges into her, again, again, deeper, faster. Each stroke is punctuated by his name, _Haise, Haise,_ louder, more desperate, _Haise, Haise, Haise,_ until it raises into a loud and wordless cry that he joins, echoes.

Afterward, he rests a while on top of her, relishing Touka’s deep breaths, the strong drum of her heart. Then, feeling self-conscious, he lifts himself off her.

Is his eye back to normal? Sasaki decides to leave the blindfold on a little longer, but Touka is already undoing it, and, failing to undo it, just tugs it off. Sasaki blinks rapidly, and as his vision fills back in, he sees Touka watching him. She’s calm, so his eye is probably back to normal. He indulges himself with a good look at her.

Her hair is sticking up in all directions, giving him a glimpse of her right eye. Somehow her sweater didn’t make it off, but it’s been tugged aside by their activities, and its collar exposes one shoulder. The visible parts of her body are flushed, and glistening.

She is, in other words, beautiful. He feels his face redden and tents his hand over it.

“Tou — ka.” His voice breaks in the middle; he clears his throat.

“Haise,” she says back, and he feels like he’s going to melt. He looks up, takes her hands. Clears his throat, again.

“Will you stay?”

He holds his breath, rubs her fingers as she thinks. _Please,_ he thinks. _Please._

He knows that a shadow has followed her, all the days and hours that they’ve spent together, a shadow that darkens her gaze in spare moments and puts weight into her sighs. A shadow of someone that has left her behind, for whom she’s struggled to do the same.

_Forget them,_ he begs. _Let them go. Stay with me, instead._

“Yeah,” she says. And then — sucking a breath — “Yes. I’ll stay with you.”

She gives a little _oof_ as he clutches her body to his. He grins into her shoulder and together they remove what’s left of her clothing, and wrestle the blankets out from beneath them and swaddle themselves up. Touka’s body fits perfectly against his. He wraps his arms around her and whispers things like _Touka, Touka, you are the most beautiful person I’ve met._ And, _I think I did pretty well with that blindfold...so does that mean I was a good pupil?_

And though he can’t see her smile, though all he can hear is her groan, he feels her shake with laughter.


End file.
